The Walking Dead: A Soldiers Story
by LegionXV
Summary: An Australian soldier on holiday in America finds himself in a dire situation as the dead don't stay dead... Somewhat AU, adds another character(s) to the group going from Atlanta to Prison and who knows where. Gore, Guns, Swears and Zombies! Rating may change later on...


A/N: This character is somewhat based on me or people I know, but is definitely not a self-insert. Although It is horribly written, I hope you enjoy and such.

The Walking Dead: A Soldier's Story

Chapter One: Tourist

I looked out the window of the shabby hotel I was staying in. I am only in Atlanta for business, I maintain that to everyone. I focused my eyes, as usual, a lot of hustle on the dirty roads. But it was a little different, one man was terrified, running through the crowds, he reminded me of that guy in Shaun of the Dead, definitely the best Zombie movie ever.

Then another lot of people came into view, they were shambling with torn faces, probably make up and all from the 'Atlanta Zombie Walk'. We have something similar in Melbourne, although it was a little odd at the fat guy with 'guts' spilling, how he did that, I have no idea.

I looked for a minute more and then heard a scream from a level below me. I stood from my chair and walked to the door, I heard a groaning sound, slowly coming closer. Confused, I walked out of the room, seeing another two people doing so too.

"What is that?" asked one to another. They proceeded into their own conversation, I however, took no notice and walked to the stairs, I reached the bottom level and saw a sight worse than mouldy milk. One person was eating another's face, while three others shambled around, aimlessly. Dumbfounded, I stood there, not moving, not thinking. All I could do was stand.

The man getting eaten suddenly moved, slowly at first, then at a normal speed, getting to his feet, his face hanging by threads. The other got up with him. They then both started to walk towards me. "Oi, I don't want trouble." I could finally say, one charged at me, biting and clawing.

I grabbed his arms and pushed him into the other man; they both fell like they were drunk. "Piss off!" The other three people turned to me and began toward me. "Alright, fuck this!" I yelled as I ran back up the stairs. "Get back inside!" I yelled as I reached upstairs, the four people then stared at me.

One said, "Hey, why don't you fuck off and ride your kangaroo home, eh." Before leaving into my apartment I punched the idiot in the face, not too hard, but not painless, I then ran into my apartment, locking the heavy door as I entered.

Banging started on my door, "Get out here so I can kick your ass!" I swiftly made my way into the lounge, sitting down, grabbing my Vodka, trying to forget the sight. "Fuckin' get out here! Hey, get the fuck off- Argh!" screaming started after the banging stopped. I heard the groaning again, mixed with weird gargles. I took a long swig of the tasteless beverage, burning my throat in the process.

The banging on the door continued after about five swigs of potato infused alcohol. It made me jump up. The door started creaking; I began to panic and ran into the small kitchen grabbing one of the five knives.

I walked near the door, "Fuck off!", as soon as I said that the door fell down, three mutilated people fell through with it. Without thinking I stabbed one in the head, twisting the steel inside. It stopped moving, one grabbed my leg and in turn I slashed at its arm.

"Fuck!" I yelled as I fell over onto the hard, wooden floor. I threw the blade at the woman going to bite my leg. It impaled into it, stopping its movement, I squirmed backwards as the third person attempted to bite me. I successfully got away from it, I shot up and kicked its head, and again. I continued until it was mush. I fell back in exhaustion, disgust and guilt.

Vomit flew from my mouth, somehow silent. For some reason I always vomit like that. I fell over again, lying next to the putrid puddle. I braved looking back up; all I saw was a red pool. Then something slightly familiar got up. That cock head I punched earlier, his arm was completely missing, "Fuck!" I yelled for the third time in the last two minutes.

I got up again, running into the bedroom nearby, grabbing a metal broom. I tore off the plastic head, desperation playing its part, increasing my strength somehow. I ran back out, the dick head had fallen over the corpses on the ground. As he started rising again, I stabbed my makeshift spear into his head, stopping any movement.

"Definitely zombies…" I muttered as I walked into the kitchen, grabbing the longest knife and some duct tape. I pulled off the plume of stiff horse hair and shaved the sharp object in the hole where the plume was, I then secured it with duct tape. "Alright." I said to myself before vomiting silently again.

After a moment of recovery I moved out of the room and into the hallway. Four 'Zombs' were shambling about, seemingly without a care in the world, until they noticed me. They quickly shambled towards me, groaning and moaning.

When the first one, with no face, came close, I impaled its head on my homemade pike. It fell to the ground; the second beast then copped a knife-pole into it, then the next. The last one was too close though, it grabbed my arm. With my spare hand I punched its arm as hard as I could, making a sickening cracking sound.

Its arm fell, giving me the moment to kick at it, sending it into a wall. I followed up with a stab to the head. After this predicament was dealt with a sat down against a dirty wall. "What now." I said to myself, thinking of what to do. After a moment it dawned on me. I ran into my apartment again and grabbed a large backpack, then into the kitchen, throwing a few blocks of chocolate, cereal, meats and some vodka into one of the pouches. Next I ran into the bedroom, grabbing a map of the area, a compass and my watch, with batries.

My bag was probably siting at 5 kilos. I walked out of the room and to the first few zombs I killed, or rather 're-killed', and picked up the knife still impaled into the corpse. I threw that into the third pouch of my large bag, than grabbed the duct tape and an assortment of batries. After grabbing my gear I remembered to why I was here.

YouTube subscriber day, here to see Sacriel and all that. Thinking about that reminded me of DayZ, causing me to run to the next apartment and search for some gear. After a short while my bag had grown from basic provisions to everything I needed. I had a sleeping bag even.

Cautiously I walked down into the first level, looking for any Zombies. Nothing. Slowly I walked into the reception, I saw the corpse of the owner, I now thought back to Dead Island, I stabbed its head, just to make sure. Just in case, I opened the cash register and took any notes, stuffing them in the last pouch of my bag. There was a fair bit of money. To be honest, I always was a little kleptomaniacal...

I made my way to the back door, it lead into an alleyway, thus less zombies. Before I could open the door gunfire cracked. Being the gun-nut I am I heard M2 Browning, M4s and M16s. It seemed Americas armed forces had arrived. I remained inside, having served in Afghanistan for a year; I know how ruthless this force is. I decided to stay here.

I started by bolting the doors, then obstructing them with a few cabinets and whatever else. I also dragged all of the bodies into the first floor, to mask my presence in the case of the army failing in their job. I then went upstairs, checking each room fully for any useful things. There still was a hell of a lot of stuff here, I definitely couldn't carry any more the bag was around 17 kilograms, taking a small toll on my back.

I moved back into my apartment, not doing anything but listen to screams and gunshots. I looked down at my hands; they were covered in blood, all of others. This wasn't the first I had killed. I was a sniper in Afghanistan, I had killed 29 people, but that was at extreme range, this was different, I never had blood on my hands, literally, but for some reason it bothered me more than when I blew up an APC with 7 men in it.

I am not usually scared by blood but I found myself sickened by the sight. "Fuck me…" I muttered as I thought of my friends and family back home. I started to break down thinking of my mum, dad and even my bitchy sister. I had never missed them more than now.

About four days later, the shots and screaming stopped, all I could hear was the excessive amounts of groaning, no zombies had messed with me, but the last stand was nearby, negating my chances of escape. I had restless nights; my second knife in hand at all times, it was like Aghfy, 'No rest for the wicked.' As my sergeant used to say. I was very wicked.

After many hours of sitting, drinking my many sorrows away, I heard a whistling sound. Similar to an old kettle. After a moment of trying to identify the sound a huge explosion rocked the hotel. Another followed, and then twelve more.

The building felt as if an earthquake had hit. I fell over the couch, hitting my head on the coffee table right in front of me. Darkness took me.

I awoke with a splitting headache, not moving until a few minutes, it was like one of my first hangovers, painful as hell. Once I was up I looked out the broken window to see a small group of zombies next to a M1A2 Abrams and a small stockade.

I picked up my bag, putting it on my back, tying it up around my waist. I walked out with 'the doom stick' as I had dubbed it and moved my barricade. The moment I stepped out I stabbed and killed a zombie, then walked to the next, killing it. I quickly made my way to the Abrams and climbed inside.

I saw nothing useful inside and quickly got out, grabbing the shovel on its side, tying it to the bag. A zombie walked behind me silently only to be re-killed by the doom stick. I saw one dead U.S. Soldier with his face blown off; I bent down and grabbed the M9 Berretta and his M4 Carbine, slinging the rifle over my shoulder, then the pistol and belt around myself.

I grabbed three M9 mags and a suppressor and two M4 mags. I then started my way out of the city, stabbing the occasional zombie here and there. In the distance, about a hundred metres away, I say a reasonable force of zombies, around 15 in total next to an armed Humvee with an M2 on top.

I pulled the M9 out of my new holster, attached the suppressor and sighted up. I fired off one round, striking the target perfectly, then another and another. After a few seconds all of the monsters had centre metre wide holes in their skulls. I popped out the magazine and replaced it.

I still kept the old mag, just in case. I slowly walked toward the HMMV and looked through the boot of it. I wonderful sight met my eyes. An M14 tactical kit was before me, this weapon was a great DMR. I put my M4 down on the ground and picked up the long case holding he rifle.

I stuffed them both into the spare space in the backpack. I then grabbed ammunition for all my weapons, putting them in the outer slots in my bag; it was an Australian Defence Force Infantryman pack, so I had plenty of room. I leaned into the car, stabbing a corpse in the head to check. I turned the key which was left in there, the machine loudly turned to life, in response a huge group of un-dead came from most directions.

Panic taking over again I put the previous owner's foot on the accelerator pedal, causing the vehicle to speed off into the group, they all followed it as I ran towards the tall shop nearby.

I reached the giant shop filled with clothes and ran up the stairs, slaughtering any zombs that came anywhere near me. Eventually I made my way up to the roof. No zombies, brilliant. I closed the nearby door and after a moment of looking down on the road below, I set out my sleeping bag.

It was already night time so I just dozed off in my 'bed'. The exhaustion helped in this matter.

A/N: Thank you for reading this slog of a chapter, I hope you like the story and found my OC to be not so perfect. Please review, rate and spread the literary butter. Another chapter shall come shortly.

P.S. The character is a nerd-gamer-soldier-sniper who likes Vodka.


End file.
